


I'm With You

by christinesangel100



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: tw:suicidal tendancies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-06
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-28 15:33:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/993585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/christinesangel100/pseuds/christinesangel100
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Reichenbach Fall. Oneshot, may later be continued. <br/>John has had a little bit too much to drink, and without Sherlock, starts to think that life isn't really worth it anymore. However, unknown to him, a certain someone has been watching, and is not about to let him die. </p>
<p>Johnlock is slightly implied, but can easily be seen as just friendship if you want. Rated Teen and Up due to the implications relating to suicide. </p>
<p>Inspired by the song 'I'm With You' by Avril Lavigne</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm With You

**Author's Note:**

> Editing this to post it here has made me think of a way to continue it, so that might happen. Anyway. This song is one of my favourite songs, and when listening to it after Reichenbach fall, this came to mind. 
> 
> I can't wait for Season 3, but in the meantime...even with how long I normally take to update, I might have time to write more! 
> 
> The song used is 'I'm with you' by Avril Lavigne, which I used because of reasons. I also mention another song I like, which (if you want to know) is called London River, and the band is Fairport Convention. 
> 
> Thank you very much for reading! :)

There he was, standing on a bridge. He didn't really know what he was doing. He'd had a bit much to drink, he supposed. For some reason, the thought made him laugh out loud, giggling at the edge of a bridge above a dark Thames. He didn't often giggle, but when he'd been drinking....well, some things tended to change. He knew he'd never be thinking of doing this sober, but somehow that thought didn't stop him.

He stood alone, staring over at the water. There was no one else there. No one but him, alone. No sound.

No one had even realised he'd left the pub. He laughed again, finding the fact that no one had noticed his absence hilarious. Who was there to notice, now? 

Of course, Sherlock would have noticed. He'd noticed everything. But Sherlock wasn't there anymore, was he? Sherlock....Sherlock wouldn't come.

 

  
_Or would he?_ John wondered. After all, didn't they say that when you die, you see people you used to know? If he stepped off this bridge, woudl Sherlock be there to guide him home?

  
_I'm standing on a bridge_ __  
_I'm waiting in the dark_ __  
_I thought that you'd be here by now_ __  
_There's nothing but the rain_ __  
_No footsteps on the ground_   
_I'm listening but there's no sound_   
_Isn't anyone trying to find me?_   
_Won't somebody come take me home?_   


He shivered standing there, above the river. The famous London river. He'd heard a song about it once.  _London River, oh the London River, all the love I had I'll give her, London river oh the London river, that's the river for me..._  The perfect river, then. The one you give your love too. The river for him. Rivers. Dark and mysterious, who knew what was in the depths? He laughed hysterically. Just like Sherlock, no one knew. He wondered bizarelly if that was what was meant to happen. Sherlock and he had worked together, lived together. Maybe they should both fall. 

There was nothing for him to do any more. Lestrade had tried to see if he wanted to help with some cases, but they both knew he was nothing compared to Sherlock. He'd picked up a few things, but he was no good. Even Mycroft had dropped by once, offering him a way to keep busy. He'd declined. It was Mycroft's fault, wasn't it? All his fault. 

There was nothing for him. No one would employ him-Moriarty had seen to that. Sherlock's fall had worked for him, too. Sherlock Holmes and the fool of a doctor who'd believed him. Fool of a doctor who could no longer be trusted. Fool of a doctor who patients complained about, refused to let him treat them. There was nothing for him anymore.

He thought of the cases they'd shared, the stories he'd written up on his blog.  _A study in Pink, The Blind Banker, Hound of the Baskervilles._ Sherlock had been a rude, arrogant arse, but he hadn't been pretending. None of it had been a lie. Everyone else had turned their backs. Even Harry. ' _You can't honestly still be defending the man, John? You really were taken in. He was a fake, he was a monster.'_ He'd heard it all now.

After Sherlock's fall, reporters had asked him. "Was he a fake? Did you know? Were you an accomplice?" No comment. No comment. That's what he'd said at first. Eventually, he'd exploded. Said something about how stupid they all were. How they saw, but didn't observe anything. About how they should have realised.

Sherlock might even have been proud. He'd pointed out facts about them, tried to use Sherlock's skills. He'd learnt enough to make them leave him alone after that. He'd even raised some doubts about Sherlock being a fake. After all, if he'd worked out a few things...not much, but something. But it had come to nothing.

What was he supposed to do now? There was nothing. He just wanted Sherlock. Sherlock, to come out of nowhere, grab his hand and take him to another crime scene, another wonderful, mad, crazy, dangerous adventure that no one would believe. It was true, he didn't know everything about Sherlock. He wasn't exactly open, he wasn't trusting. But he'd been John's best friend. He always would be.

  
_It's a damn cold night_ __  
_Trying to figure out this life_ __  
_Won't you take me by the hand?_ __  
_Take me somewhere new_ __  
_I don't know who you are_ __  
_But I... I'm with you_ _  
_ _I'm with you_   


 

He glanced around him. Where was he, anyway? He started walking down the side of the Thames, searching for something remembered, something relating to him. He searched the faces of the people going by. No one he recognised, no one who would stop him. He almost felt disappointed, even more empty. He hated being alone. He always had. Alone was when things went wrong.

That was part of why he'd moved in with Sherlock, wasn't it? He wanted company, friendship and excitement. That was exactly what Sherlock had provided. He hadn't been the ideal flat partner, no. Refused to do the shopping, refused to do anything... but oh, he'd give anything now to hear Sherlock refuse. Even to open the fridge to find a severed head, like he had before. To see Sherlock shooting the wall, ,with the simple, irritating explanation of "I'm bored!"

"Are you bored now, Sherlock?" He asked quietly, staring into the crowd walking by. "Was it dull? Was everything dull, too dull for you?" There was no reply, of course. To be honest, he hadn't expected one.

Where was he, anyway? He'd been here before, with Sherlock, he thought, but maybe not. He was near the Thames-on the banks of the Thames. But where? He had no idea. He wasn't even sure where he'd come from. Not important. Irrelevant. Delete it, maybe.

  
_I'm looking for a place_ __  
_I'm searching for a face_ __  
_Is anybody here I know_ __  
_'Cause nothing's going right_ __  
_And everything's a mess_ _  
_ _And no one likes to be alone_   


No one had followed him out. Lestrade had invited him out for a drink with others from Scotland yard, but he'd slipped away. They'd all bought him a drink. He'd felt their pity. "He was fooled most," They'd whispered. "He won't even believe it now." He hated it, hated their false sympathy, the way they'd nod along when he spoke of Sherlock's innocence and then mocked his words behind his back, calling him a freak now, the freak who wouldn't listen, the freak who wouldn't forget, the freak who was too loyal. He'd heard them, but they acted as if he was too stupid to understand the words. Being drunk didn't make him stupid.

No one was coming. It had been Donovan who'd broken his façade, who'd pushed him out.

"I told you, didn't I?" She'd said, rolling her eyes as he insisted that he was right. "He was a psychopath."

Before he'd even realised what he was doing, Donovan was bleeding, a broken nose.

"Shut. UP. Donovan!" It was the first show of emotion they'd seen from him for a while, but she didn't seem to care. She just stared at him, surprised. Hadn't expected the harmless, stupid, idiotic doctor to retaliate. He never had before, just sat there, letting them tell him and then discounting it.

No one knew him. No one but Sherlock. He'd been right- it was a waste to care. No one cared about him, after all. What was the point? If you cared about someone, all they did was cause you pain. And they didn't even care in return. Not enough to save you, to stop you.

Not enough.

  
_Isn't anyone trying to find me?_ _  
_ _Won't somebody come take me home?_   


 

He stepped forward, stepped closer to the edge of the bridge. Who'd stop him? As it grew later still, less people were around, and those who were didn't pay attention to the lone man on the edge of the bridge, staring into the Thames. He took a deep breath.

Sherlock. Was there something after it all, could there be? Was that against logic? He wondered what the consulting detective had deduced about it, but he'd never asked. Never thought to, despite it all. Never even thought to ask. He shook his head, a half hearted, exasperated burst of laughter leaving him. One last laugh.

He stepped forward again. Put a foot on the first bit of the small railing. It was barely a railing, to be honest. He was drunk, he wouldn't live, would he? Not if he didn't even try. Not if he hit something, and he probably would.

He wondered if this was what It was like, to be crazy. He'd never wanted to die-not really. Even in the worst moments in Afghanistan, he'd wanted to live. Wanted to recover, have a life again. But there wasn't one. Not after this. Maybe he wasn't meant to live. He'd been shot in Afghanistan, come home and been tied to a bomb, almost died a number of times. Out of all the people to meet, he'd met Sherlock Holmes, and he'd only stayed alive by chance. Maybe he wasn't meant to have come home from the war at all.

 

  
_Oh why is everything so confusing_ _  
_ _Maybe I'm just out of my mind_   


 

One more step. Climb over. He stopped at the top, sitting, waiting. Just a drop now. A fall. He'd hit the water and sink, hopefully. He wasn't going to try and stay afloat. He wasn't even sure if he could, drunk as he was. It'd been hard enough to climb up the railing. He leant forward, ready to fall. Ready to end it.

And someone grabbed his hand, pulling him back.

"No." The voice barely registered at first. He stumbled, falling over as he was pulled back over the railing, back onto the bridge, to safety. To suffering.

"Why?" He slurred, blurry eyed, staring up. A mess of black curls and defined cheekbones hovered above him.

"John." The voice was quietly, almost calmly concerned, as always. "Don't do this. Please."

"Why you here? You're not...you're dead." He forced out somehow, frowning. Something was odd about this. Was someone dead not meant to be here? He winced. His head hurt. "Not...no...le'e me alone." He slurred, closing his eyes against the sight. "Not real."

"John, please." He opened his eyes again, frowning, blinking. It couldn't be real, could it?

The person who looked like a ghost took hold of him. "I'll take you back." He said, something John couldn't recognise in his voice. Not quite...caring? No. He didn't know. Couldn't think. As the man lifted him, he retched, sick leaving his mouth.

Urgh. He knew he'd had a bit too much to drink.

  
_Won't you take me by the hand?_ __  
_Take me somewhere new_ __  
_I don't know who you are_ __  
_But I... I'm with you_ _  
_ _I'm with you_   


Sherlock took his hand, leading him away from the bridge. John didn't pay attention, staring confused at Sherlock. How could Sherlock be here? He guessed it had something to do with the fact he was drunk. Not real, then. Not good. But leading him somewhere, anyway. Maybe taking him to be dead, too. That'd be good. Wouldn't it? That was what he'd wanted. That's why he was on the bridge, after all. 

He didn't pay attention to where they were going. When Sherlock stopped, he finally took a look around them. It was oddly familiar...ah, Baker Street. He stared at the door in front of him. Baker Street. Why was he here? He hadn't stayed here since Sherlock...but Sherlock was here, now, so it must be alright to go there. If he was avoiding it because Sherlock was gone, then he didn't need to any more.

"John. Promise me you won't do anything like that again. That you won't try to do that."

He blinked, staring up blearily into his friend's eyes. Sherlock shook him, hard. "Promise me, John! Promise me!"

"...promise..." He said, sleepily. "Promise. Sherlock?"

"...Yes?" Sherlock's voice seemed uncertain, hesitant, though John wasn't sure why. He felt really, really tired suddenly. He leant against Sherlock, his eyes closing.

"Don't be dead..."

Sherlock stood frozen, with Dr. John Watson leaning against him, drunk and asleep. He probably wouldn't even remember any of the events. Sherlock had watched, and with the amount of alcohol John had imbibed-well, he wasn't surprised that he'd thrown up.

Don't be dead...

"I'm sorry, John." He whispered. Pain was clear in his voice, but there was no one to hear it, bar the sleeping ex-flatmate.

Carefully, he moved the man, sitting him down on the front step of 221b, leaning him against the door.

John shivered, clearly cold, moving in a way to attempt to conserve heat. Without letting himself think about consequences, Sherlock took off his coat, laying it over John. He wouldn't realise it was him. The coat wasn't his normal style-he lived in a constant disguise now. Even when it was so dark he dared to go out with his normal face and hair, he wore different clothes.

He started to rise, to leave John, but stopped. Hesitantly, he leant down again, and softly kissed John's forehead.

"Goodbye, John." He whispered. He stood up, watched the man sleep for a few moments, before turning and walking away.

_Take me by the hand,_

_Take me somewhere new._

_I don't know who you are,_

_But I...I'm with you..._

_I'm with you..._

When Mrs Hudson opened the door in the morning, she was surprised to see the Doctor, asleep, with a dirty coat covering him. She woke him, taking him inside. He didn't speak at first, staring numbly around, and wincing at noises, taking the aspirin she offered. She understood that, at least. It didn't need Sherlock to deduce he'd been drinking.

When he eventually spoke, he only said four words. "I dreamt about him." He said quietly.

She clucked her teeth slightly, and touched his shoulder in comfort. "I know." She replied.

John didn't speak again for a while, finishing his tea. Once he'd drunk it, he thanked her, and let her lead him to his bedroom. He stayed in Baker Street again after that.

And, even though he didn't remember it, he kept his promise.

 

_Take me by the hand,_

_Take me somewhere new._

_I don't know who you are,_

_But I...I'm with you..._

_I'm with you..._


End file.
